Eyes filled with the deepest type of hurt I’ve ever seen, we hold one another’s gaze for a moment, both of her wrists pinned snugly in my left hand. Gently, I reach up and peel the tape from her lips, something she’s had the freedom to do but has been too terrified to attempt. She hasn’t moved from this mattress since the night I brought her home unless I force her to the toilet that resides next to the open shower.
The basement begins to fill with humid steam as I toss the flimsy silver tape aside. Her red lips are puffy, enticingly wet; it makes my cock ache so hard it knocks the breath from my lungs. I’ll come in my jeans if I stare at her mouth too long.
Standing, I yank her up with me. She collides with me, her skin against mine making my dick twitch and release a spurt of hot liquid. Gritting my teeth and slowing my breath, I do everything in my power to keep the impending orgasm away, embarrassed as fuck that this situation has turned me into the teenage version of myself who had first learned to masturbate and couldn’t stop for days.
Even all those years ago, I’d conjure up the same fantasy to jerk off to every time.
Only now?
Now my sick, twisted fantasy has finally come to life.
And poor Summer Stone is at the heart of it.
CHAPTER TWO
SUMMER STONE
Life has always beena constant film reel to me. Snapshots of long, hot days spent at my grandparents’ cabin, all the cousins running rampant around the tight knit community. Flimsy polaroids of me graduating high school, one of the few who stayed behind with not a clue what I would do in my future. I’ve always surrendered to whatever path the universe sets me on, and it’s paid off.
But one particular frozen memory stands out starkly to me, now. A conversation held between myself and my two best friends a year ago when they were home visiting from college. My pages had finally started gaining traction, my aesthetic and editing skills something the online community enjoyed. With all the good, of course there would besomebad.
“You’d better be careful, Sum. The world is full of creeps. No one is ever fully safe anymore. Someone could find you so easily.”
Pride stung, I’d brushed off my concerned friend’s words. Iwascareful. Never posted clips of street signs, or the outside of my rental. Blocked slimy men who slid their tiny dick pics into my direct messages. Only posted about vacations and where I’d stayedafterI’d been there.
Maybe that’s why I was lucky enough to live such a good life prior to the here and now; the cosmos were waiting to drop the other shoe on me.
He came in the night. I’d been out to a bar with friends in my new hometown of San Diego before getting a ride home early to finish some edits for my next vlog. After showering, scarfing down an ungodly amount of greasy pizza and strawberry ice cream, and watching the latest episode ofDateline, I’d passed out, safe and cozy in my bed.
The mask was what I’d seen first, a quick flash of a bloody red, too-big smile and terrifying blue eyes with holes where the pupils should’ve been. Then came the brightness of a disorienting strobe light, the pressure of his substantial weight settled tightly across my hips, pinning me to my mattress. Instinct had taken over, and I’d fought. Poorly. Pathetically. My mind had raced through every scenario of how this would play out while I pleaded for it to just be a nightmare. What was he going to do? How was he going to do it? And how long would it take until I was finally given the reprieve of death?
The way my stomach sank once I realized what was most likely going to happenbeforeI died is a feeling I’ll never be able to justly describe or forget. He’d held a rough cotton rag to my mouth and nose, and though I held out for as long as I could, the chloroform eventually won.
I can’t remember how many days ago my kidnapping occurred, but I think I’ve been here, chained in this derelict and frightening basement, for four or more days. My captor never speaks. Never touches me, unless to unlock me and lead me to the toilet. I’d been so horrified the first time he took me over there that I’d outright refused.
He’d quietly put me back on the lumpy mattress and left, returning an hour later, right before my bladder would’ve burst.
And now? Now that sinking feeling is back in my gut, and a sob wracks my exhausted frame as I choke on my tears and pull against his hold. The warm dampness clinging to my skin from the steaming showerisenticing; I’ve nearly frozen to death down here, still in my camisole and silk shorts.
Still, he doesn’t speak. That creepy fucking clown mask grins down at me, but now the steady rise and fall of his chest isn’t covered by a thick sweatshirt. His smooth, sun-kissed skin stretches over taut, rippling cords of muscle. The few marks he bears against otherwise flawless skin only add to the view; some raised pinkish scars, and a singular tattoo over his left pec, a meaningless symbol to me.
A deep line between the ridges of his flexing abdominal muscles leads down to an outie belly button, and I carefully memorize every detail of this fucker for when I…
My thoughts short out. My heart sinks. Statistically speaking, my chances are very slim of making it out alive. I have to try, though. Something in me is forcing me to fight, maybe not physically, but mentally. I can do that, right? Somehow outsmart him? Make him sympathize, lull him into trusting me?
My eyes dip further as he shifts on the gritty floors, and bile rises up my throat at the massive dick outline running along his thick thigh. Near where the tip would reside is a darkened wet spot, and my body ices over, freezing in a state of fear I’ve never known before.
At a few months past twenty-one, I’m not exactly the most experienced. My long-term boyfriend in high school had been a virgin with me, so we’d been able to sort of fumble our way awkwardly through sex, discovering what we liked. After we broke up, I’d had exactly two flings, both with the same guy, and both ending abruptly because intimacy with him wasn’t what I found enjoyable.
Neither person I was with had a dick even close to the size of the one my captor has, and without thinking, my eyes jump to his and my bottom lip wobbles uncontrollably as I fight to hold in another sob. Though shaded from the mask, the color of his eyes are striking, the lightest, clearest brown I’ve ever seen, like a cut of timber sparkling at the bottom of a glacial lake.
Without a word, he stands lithely and drags me up with him. Woozy still from the poison he forced me to inhale and the lack of food I’ve ingested, I crash against him, fingers splayed over that smooth, fiery skin. Lurching away as though singed by flames, I stumble back and hit the wall. He motions to my clothes, the demand clear. He’ll win either way, but I plan to be as obstinate as possible.
I shake my head, snot trailing down to my lip that I hastily wipe away, hiccuping over my tears. He takes a rather slow, steadying breath, like an annoyed parent before explaining something to a child for the fifth time in a row. He points to the shower, the stream rhythmically hitting the floor below and bringing to life that old home mildewy scent.
When he points to my tattered, dirty pajamas, I shake my head again. He simply stares, and I stare back, his familiarity already becoming a comfort; he is both my death sentence and lifeline. I know that I will be unable to control all psychological impulses while in such a trauma-inducing situation, know that I may not be able to stop myself from forming a bond with the very thing that may kill me.
Funny, the way our brains try to protect us.
